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Louis peers down at his watch.
From his calculations, he has about 10 minutes left of this interview.
That’s 10 minutes to recite his prepared story. Stay on script, get the promo, keep everyone happy—if only he could remember the reporter's name. He smirks. He’s managed worse.
"Mara—" he blurts, snapping back, forcing his voice steady. His smile is quick, a cover-up. "Found the secret to happiness with her, yeah."
“Oh?” The reporter raises an eyebrow. “Tell me more.”
“Zara,” Louis corrects. “Her name is Zara. Sorry. Long night me suppose.”
A crooked smirk flickers. Ceiling pulses. The room closes in—he wouldn’t mind.
“She came to me at just the right time,” Louis rubs his hands together.
Who are you dating? What inspired the songs? Life after 1D? Tired questions whirl. He imagines handing over a script, but the label wants headlines, not rehearsed answers.
And without the label’s blessing, there are no future projects. The unspoken threat hangs over every word.
He exhales, slow and heavy, shifting in the sticky chair. Head pounding, palms slick. Still, he twists a smile for the camera, winks even. Acting comes easy; nobody fakes it better.
The reporter questions, "Are you nervous about the pressure of stadiums?" leaning closer.
Louis answers, looking down at his fingernails, "Eh, me suppose. I haven't really engaged in that scene since my time with 1D, you know what I mean? I never really had the confidence until now."
The reporter raises an eyebrow, smiling warmly at Louis, almost flirty, and asks, "What changed?"
"Me suppose I've gotten older, really. More assured of myself. With everything that has happened lately, all the sadness," Louis says, clearing his throat and taking in a ragged breath. "With Liam, I've realized life is short. I mean, I knew it before, you know what I mean? Had a lot of loss, a lot of love. A lot of support."
He wipes clammy hands on his jeans, practicing composure for the handshake. Wish I could remember her name, he thinks, biting his lip.
"Well, Louis, I appreciate your time today," the reporter says, smiling. "You can check out his album: How Did I Get Here on streaming platforms everywhere and maybe even catch Louis on tour."
"Fanks for having me," Louis nods, sticking out his hand. "You're very lovely," he adds.
“And cut!” He hears a voice in the distance.
Thank God, he mutters, ripping off the mic. One last forced smile, then he heads for his waiting car.
He slumps down in the seat and instructs the driver to take him straight home. His stomach growls with pangs; the room spins. He knows he needs the energy from food to get through the rest of the evening, but damn, eating feels like a chore right now.
His phone vibrates in his pocket. He could answer it; he probably should. He should at least check who it is. Usually, he would, in fact, usually, it would already be in his hand. Yet, all his energy went to that damn interview. It takes a lot out of someone having to recall all this information: his relationships. grief, old band, new songs, new endeavors. Does it end?
He swallows thickly. Should he answer? He’s supposed to be mad at him. Out of all the release dates for his single, he chooses the day Louis releases his album. It feels like a stab in the chest, if he were to be honest. But that’s the thing, he’s never honest. He’s always acting, but nobody will give him his Oscar.
The confrontation starts halfway through a laugh.
Louis is already shaking his head, pacing the length of the narrow studio lounge, while Harry leans back on the couch like this is all a joke he’s in on.
“Same day?” Louis says, not even trying to hide the disbelief. “Out of all the days in the year, you picked the same one as me?”
Harry shrugs, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth. “Didn’t realize I had to check your calendar first.”
“Don’t do that,” Louis shoots back, pointing at him. “Don’t make it sound like coincidence.”
Why did I answer this, anyway?
“It is coincidence,” Harry insists, but there’s something too quick about it, like he practiced that answer.
Louis lets out a short laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Right. Because we’ve only spent years in the same band, same circles, same bloody industry. Release dates just magically overlap, Mate.”
Harry sits forward now, elbows on his knees. “You think I’m trying to compete with you?”
“Aren’t you?” Louis fires back.
That lands. Harry’s expression tightens, just slightly. “Maybe I don’t see it as a bad thing.”
“Of course you don’t,” Louis mutters. “You always liked a bit of rivalry.”
“Friendly rivalry,” Harry corrects. “There’s a difference.”
Louis stops pacing. For a second, it almost does feel like that—like the old days, nudging each other to do better, turning everything into a game. Who could write the better hook, who could get the louder crowd.
But that’s not what this is.
“Doesn’t feel that friendly,” Louis says, quieter now.
Harry watches him carefully. “Why?”
The question hangs there, heavier than it should be.
Louis opens his mouth, ready with something sharp, something easy—but it doesn’t come out. Instead, he exhales, dragging a hand through his hair.
“Because it feels like you’re trying to prove something,” he admits.
Harry’s brow furrows. “Prove what?”
“I don’t know,” Louis says, almost frustrated with himself. “That you’re better off? That you don’t need—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “That none of it mattered.”
Harry stands then, closing some of the distance between them. “That’s not what this is.”
“Then what is it?” Louis presses.
For a moment, Harry doesn’t answer. And in that silence, all the unsaid things creep in—the way they stopped talking properly before the split, the way everything after felt like separate worlds instead of shared history.
Finally, Harry says, “Maybe I just didn’t want to avoid you.”
Louis blinks. “What?”
“If I moved my date, if I tiptoed around yours, that would make it seem like… I don’t know. Like we can’t exist in the same space anymore.” Harry shrugs, softer now. “I didn’t want that.”
That takes the edge off, just a little.
Louis huffs out a breath. “So this is what—your way of saying we’re fine?”
“Are we not?” Harry asks.
Louis doesn’t answer right away. He looks down, scuffing his shoe against the floor, the fight draining out of him faster than he expected.
“I’ve been telling everyone we are,” he says eventually.
Harry tilts his head. “That sounds like a ‘but.’”
Louis laughs under his breath. “Yeah. It is.”
The room feels smaller now, quieter. The tension hasn’t disappeared—it’s just changed shape.
“I’ve been doing all the right things,” Louis continues. “Smiling in interviews, talking about how great everything is, how excited I am for this new chapter. Even today—I was buzzing all morning, thinking this is it, this is my moment.”
Harry listens without interrupting.
“But when I saw your announcement…” Louis shakes his head. “It shouldn’t have mattered as much as it did.”
“Why did it?” Harry asks gently.
Louis hesitates. Then, with a small, almost embarrassed shrug, he says, “Because it made me feel like I was back where I started. Comparing. Competing. Wondering if I measure up.”
I should just hang up now. God.
Harry exhales slowly. “Lou—”
“And the worst part is,” Louis cuts in, his voice quieter now, “I’ve been acting like I’m completely past all that. Like I’ve grown out of it.”
He sighs heavily through the phone. He is more than glad this isn't a in person meeting.
“But I haven’t,” he admits.
There’s no defensiveness left in Harry now, just understanding. “That doesn’t make you weak.”
Louis gives a faint, crooked smile. “Doesn’t make me very convincing either.”
“Convincing to who?”
Louis lets out a breath, the answer sitting heavy on his chest. “Everyone. Myself included.”
The noise from the highway seeps in—laughter, distant music, the world carrying on like nothing’s shifted.
“I keep trying to be this version of me that’s always fine,” Louis says. “Always happy, always sure of everything. Like if I just stick to it long enough, it’ll become real.”
Harry watches him, quiet and steady.
Louis’s smile falters, just slightly.
“But it doesn’t,” he says. “Not really.”
A pause.
Then, softer, more honest than anything he’s said so far: “I feel like an imposter.” He swallows. “Like I’m pretending to be okay all the time… and I don’t even know how to stop.” "I'm sure you and Zara have these nice pillowtalks," Harry suddenly barks. Without hesitation, Louis hangs up the phone; throwing it down on his lap. "Fuck you, Harry."
The middle chapter doesn’t begin with music or laughter.
It begins with quiet.
Louis sits across from Zara at a small, dimly lit restaurant the label picked—somewhere “low-key but elevated,” whatever that means. There are candles on the table, untouched food between them, and the kind of soft background noise that makes everything feel staged.
Because it is staged.
Zara smiles at him from across the table, perfectly composed, perfectly kind. She’s not the problem. That almost makes it worse.
“You’ve been quiet,” she says gently, tilting her head. “Long day?”
Louis hums in response, tracing the edge of his glass with his finger. “Something like that.”
She studies him for a moment—not prying, just… noticing. “You don’t have to perform with me, you know.”
The words land harder than she probably intends.
Louis lets out a small, tired laugh. “That’s a bit ironic, isn’t it?”
Zara’s lips press into a thin line, but she nods. “Yeah. I suppose it is.”
There’s no hostility between them. No resentment. Just an understanding neither of them asked for.
He exhales, leaning back slightly. “They’re pushing this harder lately,” he says. “More appearances. More ‘coincidental’ sightings.”
“Better narrative,” Zara replies, almost automatically. Then she sighs. “Better headlines.”
Louis glances at her. “Does it bother you?”
She shrugs, picking at the label of her bottle. “I’ve been in this game long enough. I know how it works.” A pause. “But I’d rather it at least feel… real.”
That word again.
Real.
Louis swallows, looking down at the table. “Yeah.”
Another silence settles in, but this one is heavier. More honest.
Finally, Zara asks, “Is it me?”
Louis’s head snaps up. “What? No—no, it’s not you.”
“Then what is it?” she presses, still calm, still careful. “Because you look like you’re somewhere else entirely.”
He hesitates.
This is the part he avoids. The part he buries under interviews and smiles and carefully crafted answers.
But she’s looking at him like she already knows there’s something more.
Louis rubs the back of his neck, exhaling slowly. “I just…” He stops, searching for words that won’t make everything more complicated. “I don’t think I’m very good at this.”
“At what? Dating me?” she asks, not unkindly.
“At pretending it’s something it’s not,” he admits.
That sits between them.
Zara nods once, like she expected it. “Okay,” she says quietly. “Then what is it not?”
Louis lets out a breath, his chest tightening slightly. “It’s not… real. Not for me.” He winces, immediately adding, “And that’s not your fault. You’re—You’re great, honestly. Anyone would be lucky to—”
“Louis,” she interrupts softly. “You don’t have to soften it.”
He closes his mouth, jaw tightening.
Because softening it is exactly what he always does.
She leans forward slightly, her voice lowering. “If it’s not real, why keep going?”
The question hits deeper than expected.
Louis looks away, his reflection faint in the glass beside him. “Because it’s easier,” he says after a moment.
Zara doesn’t respond right away.
“Easier than what?” she asks.
He hesitates again. Longer this time.
Because the answer is complicated.
Because the answer has a name.
Louis exhales slowly, his voice quieter now. “Easier than changing the narrative. Easier than dealing with what people would say. What they’d assume. What they’d… dig into.”
Zara watches him carefully. “And what would they find?”
His chest tightens.
For a split second, he thinks about deflecting again—making a joke, brushing it off, turning it into something light.
But he’s too tired.
“I think they’d find that I’ve been lying,” he says.
“About us?”
Louis shakes his head slightly. “About myself.”
That’s the truth of it.
He feels it settle into the space between them, heavy and unavoidable.
Zara’s expression softens, not in pity, but in understanding. “Is there someone else?” she asks gently.
Louis doesn’t answer.
He doesn’t have to.
Because the silence says enough.
His mind drifts, uninvited, to a familiar voice, a crooked smile, the way things used to feel before everything got complicated.
Before it became something he wasn’t allowed to touch.
He swallows, forcing the thought down.
“It doesn’t matter,” he says, more firmly than he feels. “It’s not something that… works.”
“Why not?” Zara asks.
Louis lets out a hollow laugh. “Because it never did.”
Not openly. Not safely. Not in a way that didn’t come with consequences.
It was always something unspoken, something pushed aside for the sake of everything else—the band, the image, the expectations.
Forbidden doesn’t always mean impossible.
But it means costly.
And Louis is tired.
Tired of fighting things that don’t have a clear way forward.
Tired of unraveling something just to watch everything else fall apart.
So he does what he’s been doing.
He chooses the easier path.
He looks back at Zara, offering a small, practiced smile. “It’s fine,” he says. “Really. I can handle it.”
Zara studies him for a long moment.
Then she nods slowly, though there’s a trace of sadness in it. “Yeah,” she says. “That’s what I’m worried about.”
Louis ignores that.
He straightens slightly, slipping back into the version of himself that knows how to navigate this, how to keep things smooth, how to make it all look effortless.
“Come on,” he says lightly. “We’re supposed to look like we’re enjoying ourselves, remember?”
Zara gives him a faint smile in return, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Right.”
And just like that, the moment passes.
Or at least, it pretends to.
Louis laughs at the right times, says the right things, plays the part exactly as expected.
But underneath it all, something lingers.
Something real.
Something he doesn’t let himself reach for.
Because some feelings, he tells himself, are better left where they’ve always been—
Unspoken.
And buried beneath a version of himself that feels just convincing enough to get by.
The ending doesn’t arrive all at once. It eases in, like a song fading up from silence.
A week later, there’s no stage, no cameras, no release schedules hanging over them—just a quiet evening and a half-empty living room that smells faintly of takeaway and something citrusy Harry insisted on lighting.
Louis is sprawled on one end of the couch, shoes kicked off, socks mismatched. Harry’s in the kitchen, arguing with a stubborn bottle cap.
“You know,” Louis calls out, “most people just twist harder.”
“I am twisting harder,” Harry replies, voice muffled. “This thing’s defective.”
Louis snorts, the sound slipping out before he can stop it.
It surprises him.
Harry reappears a second later, holding up the bottle like a trophy. “Got it,” he says, smug.
“Heroic,” Louis deadpans, but there’s a hint of warmth in it now.
They settle into something easy after that—music playing low, conversation drifting in and out. They don’t talk about charts or streams or headlines. Instead, it’s stupid stories, half-remembered moments, the kind of things that used to fill the gaps between everything else.
At some point, Harry says something so absurd Louis doesn’t even catch the full sentence—something about a disastrous haircut and a bet gone wrong—and Louis laughs.
Not the polite kind. Not the practiced one he’s been carrying around.
A real one.
It comes out loud and unfiltered, head tipping back, shoulders shaking slightly. For a second, he forgets to hold anything in.
And when it fades, he notices Harry’s watching him.
“What?” Louis asks, a bit self-conscious now.
Harry shakes his head, smiling. “Nothing. Just… missed that.”
Louis looks away, but the corner of his mouth lifts again. “Yeah. Me too.”
The room settles into a softer quiet after that, but it’s not heavy. It’s comfortable, like neither of them is trying too hard anymore.
Louis leans back, staring up at the ceiling. “I’ve been thinking,” he says after a while.
“Dangerous,” Harry murmurs.
“Shut up,” Louis replies automatically, though there’s no bite to it. “I mean it.”
Harry shifts slightly, giving him his full attention. “Alright. Go on.”
Louis exhales slowly. “I kept saying I felt like an imposter. Like I was faking this version of myself.” He pauses, choosing his words more carefully than usual. “But maybe that’s not it.”
Harry raises an eyebrow. “What is it, then?”
Louis glances at him. “Maybe I’m just… new at it.”
Harry doesn’t interrupt.
“I mean, everything changed,” Louis continues. “Of course I don’t feel completely real in it yet. Doesn’t mean it’s fake. Just means I haven’t grown into it fully.”
Harry’s expression softens, something quietly proud flickering there. “That sounds a lot less harsh than how you were putting it before.”
“Yeah, well,” Louis shrugs, a small smile forming, “turns out I can be a bit dramatic.”
“Just a bit,” Harry teases.
Louis rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling properly now. “Point is… I don’t think I’m an imposter anymore.” He taps his chest lightly. “Just a different version of me. Still figuring things out.”
There’s a pause.
Then Harry says, more quietly, “I like this version.”
Louis looks at him, caught slightly off guard. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.” Harry leans back into the couch, but his gaze stays fixed on Louis. “He laughs more. Even if it takes him a minute to get there.”
Louis huffs out a soft laugh. “Don’t get used to it.”
“Too late,” Harry says.
The air shifts again—subtle, but noticeable. The kind of shift that makes everything feel a little closer, a little more charged.
Louis notices it. Of course he does.
“So,” he says, nudging the moment lightly, “this your way of saying you don’t regret the whole same-day release thing?”
Harry grins. “Oh, I absolutely don’t regret that.”
“Unbelievable,” Louis mutters.
“Got you back in the same room as me, didn’t it?”
Louis opens his mouth to respond, then stops.
Harry tilts his head slightly, watching him. “What?”
“…That was intentional?” Louis asks.
Harry shrugs, but there’s nothing casual about the way he’s looking at him now. “Maybe.”
Louis lets out a quiet, incredulous laugh. “You’re impossible.”
“Didn’t hear you complaining,” Harry says, leaning just a fraction closer.
There it is.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just unmistakable.
Louis feels it, that flicker of something he’s been carefully ignoring. “You always this subtle?” he asks.
“Only when I think it’ll work,” Harry replies.
“And you think it’s working?” Louis challenges, though there’s no real resistance behind it.
Harry’s smile softens, just slightly. “I think you didn’t leave.”
That lands differently.
Louis looks at him for a second, longer than he means to. Then he glances away, a small smile tugging at his lips.
“Yeah,” he admits. “I didn’t.”
“Good,” Harry says, almost under his breath.
Another pause settles between them, but it’s not awkward. It’s… anticipatory.
Louis exhales, leaning back again, but he’s still smiling—still lighter than he’s been in a long time.
Maybe he’s not pretending.
Maybe he’s just changing.
And maybe, he thinks, glancing sideways at Harry, some things aren’t as complicated as he made them out to be.
“Careful,” Louis says after a moment, nudging Harry lightly with his shoulder. “Keep flirting like that and I might start thinking you’ve got an agenda.”
Harry smirks. “Might?”
Louis laughs again—easier this time, like it belongs to him.
And for once, he doesn’t question it.